


Wait for it...

by IgnorantArmies



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, M/M, Memories, Stormpilot, Torture, at some point, in between scenes, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnorantArmies/pseuds/IgnorantArmies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew where they were taking him, knew what they wanted and how they would get it. </p><p>But even weaponless, cuffed, and deep in the belly of a star destroyer full of First Order troops, Poe Dameron still had the one thing that had got him in and out of trouble his entire life: his big, stupid mouth.</p><p>---</p><p>Filler scenes from The Force Awakens when Poe gets captured, Finn decides to desert The First Order, and whatever happens afterwards...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was one thing passing by a star destroyer – or, rather, speeding away from one as fast as your ship would go – watching it spew out endless spawns of TIE fighters like some primordial deep sea creature blowing out eggs into the void. It was a whole other deal to be inside the belly of one, inside a hanger so big it could have swallowed up the entire Resistance fleet back on D’Qar, surrounded by so many Stormtroopers Poe didn’t even try to count.  

The trooper standing next to him grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him down the transport ramp. Poe stumbled to a stop at the bottom, gaping at the endless lines of ships and the scurrying ant-like activity of soldiers, engineers and droids all around. Lights bounced off every surface, and his own dumbstruck face leered back at him, reflected in the trooper’s armour. There was no denying that the shining, meticulous lines of the First Order lent it a certain appeal. If only in its ability to strike fear into anyone who didn’t conform.

He'd never felt so out of place in his life. 

Back at the ever-moving string of bases he called home, the Resistance cultivated a shabby, slightly out-of-date, put-together atmosphere – never quite enough time to put a final polish on anything. Its uniform was patently un-uniform, discoloured pieces patched together from old Rebellion flight suits and Republic cast-offs. Barracks were often rush jobs set up in abandoned colonies – once, even, in some sort of moss-covered monastery – with a mismatch of cots and blankets, made safe and warm by the familiar white noise of tired bodies shifting in their sleep. It made him think of the fond, rose-tinted smile of hindsight that crossed his parents’ lips when they talked about their Rebellion days. Days when you treasured your cup and spoon as much as your blaster. When every manoeuvre was scraped, every victory tainted with loss, and some days your only sustenance was the companionship of your fellow fighters.  

“Glorified sentimentalism,” his mother called it, with a short, hard laugh, though she never tried to explain the reality of the hardships they had endured. Poe only heard about them later, after his parents were gone and Yavin 4 held nothing for him but piteous looks and a twisted tree. Grandiose stories trickled down to him as he rose through the Republic’s ranks; stories he never really believed; stories to rival the Skywalker myths and the ridiculous, physically impossible feats of flying that General Solo was meant to have pulled off. But the minute he stepped into The Resistance, the sugar-coated legends switched to quieter, personal, genuine accounts. A simple: “I flew with her,” or “I was there on Endor with him,” accompanied by a nod and a heavy hand on his shoulder. The gilded tales became laden with lost comrades and sacrifice and acts of bravery that were no more than split second decisions in the face of certain death. And the more missions Poe flew, the more funerals he spoke at, the more he was forced to give orders he knew would result in fewer ships making it home, he began to understand the need for the nostalgia. The more he appreciated coming home to people who remembered his parents as they were; who would remember him for what he was, not just a flash of light through the night sky.

He wondered how long they’d wait before giving him his own absent funeral. How long before he became just another story.

The trooper’s grip tightened on his upper arm, pulling him forward and out of his reverie.  

“All right, all right,” Poe snapped, allowing himself to be herded towards a side corridor, forcing himself to start paying attention – to catalogue anything that might help him get out of here alive, anything of use to take back to General Organa. Because it wasn't about the heroics, he knew - it was about not giving up. 

But every doorway looked the same. Every branch on every corridor led to the same endless, seamless darkness. Every Stormtrooper perfect and regimented and identical. And he couldn't concentrate on any of it because he knew where they were taking him, knew what they wanted and how they would get it. All he could do was let himself be dragged along and try to amuse himself by seeing how far he could push his guard before he broke rank. Because even weaponless, cuffed, and headed to what would probably be his death, Poe Dameron still had the one thing that had got him in and out of trouble his entire life: his big, stupid mouth. 

"So... you figured out that whole tailspin issue on the TIEs yet?" 

"Do you guys actually do target practice or is it just a case of point and hope you score a ricochet?" 

"Gods, that suit must be sweaty. I can recommend a good healing cream if you get chafing on those thigh-seams..." 

The trooper ignored him at first, but Poe could tell his incessant comments were starting to grind, and by the time they reached their destination - an unmarked room on a heavy-security detainment level - the guard shoved Poe none too gently against the door, his blaster pressed into the prisoner's throat. An officer was waiting for them - a man about the same height as Poe, trim and crisp in his uniform, skin pale and thin from months of space travel. The man took note of Poe's grin and the Stormtrooper's tense stance.  

"Problem?" the officer asked. 

Poe leaned carefully around the blaster barrel and inclined his head towards the officer in confidentiality. "I was just asking him how he keeps his helmet so shiny," he explained.  

The officer nodded curtly but didn't let any thoughts he might have on the matter show on his face. Instead, he slapped the door control beside Poe's head and strode into the room without another word. The room in which Poe would spend his significant future in acute pain.

The room he thought he would die in.  

The trooper grabbed a fistful of Poe's jacket and pushed him through the door after the officer but the pilot dug his heels in the moment he saw what was waiting for him. The only decor comprised a single chair - something more like a dissection table, actually - bound with metal restraints and an assortment of unsavoury looking attachments. At its side was a digital display which the officer fingered with anticipation. 

“Woah, woah, hold on a minute, just wait.” Poe barked out a laugh, held up his cuffed hands, and forced his face into seriousness as he nodded towards the torture chamber. “I asked for a room with a view - this one doesn’t even have a porthole-” 

The officer nodded again and Poe found himself thrown to the floor, his head ricocheting off the underside of the chair with a clang.  

"Care to leave a parting gift?" the officer said to the trooper, who squared his shoulders, lowered his blaster, and sent a fist smashing into Poe's jaw. 

Starlight in darkness. Blood in his mouth. Hands pulling him to his feet once more. His wrists were released momentarily but then he felt the cold metal of the chair against his back and the immovable embrace of the restraints as they clamped around his ankles, waist and forearms.  

Poe tongued his newly split lip and showed his bloody teeth to the Stormtrooper. "Leftie, huh? Thought they'd have programmed that out of you." 

The trooper's fist tightened again but the officer dismissed him with a wave, waiting until the door slid shut and the lock bleeped before he moved into Poe's field of vision. 

"You like to talk," the officer appraised. "That should make this quick." 

He turned back to the digital display and inputted a sequence that sent the chair humming - a low electrical current that Poe felt rather than heard.  

"Shame," the officer said with the first sign of expression he'd shown so far - a tight, humourless smile. 

The current hissed against Poe's skin, making his spine twitch, culminating in a steadily increasing pressure at his temples. He tested his restraints arbitrarily but was not surprised to find there was no give at all. He could lift his head forward but something about the electricity searing through the contraption made it difficult to focus movement in any direction. Made it difficult to breathe. To think.

And he was pretty sure it was just warming up.

He tried to think of a comeback - something to knock the smirk from the guy's face - but the muscles in his back and his neck were starting to spasm and his lungs burned with the effort of gasping in the little air he could manage. The buzzing of the chair spiked into a pitch he could no longer hear and the taste of iron on his tongue turned sharp and hot as lightning invaded his brain. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Report to my_   _division_ , the captain ordered in a voice that promised nothing but bad news. 

And he'd been waiting there for thirty-eight minutes and fifty-two seconds. Waiting to be decommissioned. Court martialed. Worse.

FN-2187 stood to attention outside the report room, trying not to think about the protocol for failing to obey a direct order. He swayed on his feet, twitching with adrenaline; the only thing keeping him upright was the brain-dead act of staring steadily at the ventilation grid set into the door. He was used to standing guard for hours on end - staving off boredom and lethargy to remain alert - but this was different. Knowing there would be no relief. Knowing there would be no more last chances.

The digital stat display inside his helmet told him that his heart rate and core body temperature were way above normal. It was as if he'd brought the Jakku desert back with him; filled his suit with fire and terror. His brain felt like it was frying, melting against the inside of the helmet, but he didn't dare take it off again. He'd wiped away the bloody smears in the shuttle back to the ship. Slip's fingerprints. Slip's blood. The closest thing he'd had - would probably ever have - to a friend. Stupid, fall-behind, never-good-enough Slip, who Captain Phasma had made him promise he'd stop trying to save. Well, he'd done as he'd been ordered.

FN-2187 forced himself to stand taller, to calm his breathing and blink away the black spots creeping in at the sides of his vision. Troopers didn't panic. Troopers didn't fall to pieces on a mission. Troopers didn't fail. 

Except he'd done all of those things and more. He'd disobeyed.

He'd once been proud to be a Stormtrooper - an elite class of solider, renowned for their endurance, untouchable, robotic and precise - a finely constructed reputation that both demonstrated the perfect order of the First Order and inspired fear in anyone who considered stepping out of line. Once, he'd found that thrill of synchronicity comforting - thousands of feet marching in time, voices chanting together, moving as one - an unstoppable creature of muscle and metal of which he was a vital part. Now he saw it from the other side - the terrifying dread of non-compliance. The bug beneath the boot.

The hiss of an opening door made him jolt. He fought the urge to look behind him as footsteps approached steadily down the corridor. He saw the glint of the captain's armour before she moved into his sightline. Phasma stopped beside him. He tried to stand as straight as he could, as motionless as possible, knowing she was studying him, even though she didn't look his way. Back in training, in the barracks, a myth had spread through the platoon that the captain could read minds. Some swore she was force-sensitive. That she  _knew_  what you were thinking even before you thought it. She was always watching, always there to catch the slightest slip-up. FN-2187 had always ignored the gossip - he'd admired her, as much as she terrified him. He'd heard stories about the force and mind-reading didn't sound likely. Kylo Ren's power was loud and violent and impulsive. Captain Phasma was none of those things. She was a good captain, that was all. She knew her soldiers. She'd known he was going to make a mistake, he realised, with a gut-wrenching lurch. She'd been watching him.  

The door to the reporting room slid open and he flinched again. The captain stepped through and he followed, expecting to see a panel of officers lining up to condemn him, but the room was empty. 

Phasma stood across the room, hands clasped behind her back. There were no chairs. No desk. No semblance of comfort. 

_What, did you expect? Small-talk and a drink?_

He could feel the sweat running down his neck.

"FN-2187, why didn't you fire your weapon?" the captain asked in a flat tone - no anger, no irritation, no accusation. Just a mild sort of curiousity.

He didn't reply. Didn't know how to.

"Is there a problem with your com-unit?"

He shook his head jerkily. "No, Captain."

"Then why did you fail to fire upon my order? Upon Kylo Ren's order?"

He didn't need to look at his display to tell his pulse was racing - he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The vacant eyes of the captains helmet gazed impassively at him and he wondered why it had never occurred to him that the perpetual lack of expression felt... wrong, somehow. To live surrounded by blank faces. Copies. Clones.

"I... couldn't," he muttered.

Phasma's sigh merged with the hissing release of her helmet. She eased it off and held it at her side. Her face was pale and her hair was short and neat - no sign of sweat or discomfort or disarray. Inside his own suit, FN-2187 was a mess. Maybe she did have special powers. Or an air-con unit. 

"At ease, FN-2187," the captain said in a tired voice, softer without the mechanised communicator.

He yanked off his helmet with relief. It bounced against his leg in his shaky hand, clattering on his smoke-stained armour.

"I understand your... difficulty," Phasma continued carefully - and for a moment the image of blaster bolts ripping through a cluster of defenceless villagers flashed through his head, "But that is not an answer I can cite in my report."

FN-2187 stared down at his feet. "Yes, Captain. I'm sorry, Captain."

"Do you realise the importance of today's mission?" 

He faltered. To say no would be stupid. To say yes would mean he deliberately disregarded it. Thankfully the captain didn't wait for a reply.

"The Resistance is close to tracking down a vital piece of reconnaissance that could turn the tide of this war. That pilot, those villagers - they were all in collusion with the Resistance - they might not have looked like soldiers but they were far from innocent. Far from harmless."

FN-2187's voice had deserted him. His automatic "Yes, Captain" came out in a rasp.

The captain fixed him in her sights. FN-2187 stared straight ahead at the wall, too afraid to catch her eye in case she saw right through him. 

"You and your generation are the newest line of defence against the Resistance," Phasma said, "And we must stand as one or watch the galaxy be destroyed by the Republic's failure to keep the peace."

FN-2187 knew the spiel. Better than he knew his own face. It was tattooed onto their brains just as their combat and physical drills were tattooed onto their muscles. 

The enemy. The Republic: born out of a rebellion that ripped apart a whole galaxy of peaceful rule. The ongoing repercussions: hundreds and thousands of planets gone to ruin, devastated by failed trade routes, ravaged by pirates, enslaved by renegade armies. Idealism that cost far more lives than there ever were casualties of war. And now, the Resistance. Even more poorly organised, farming their propaganda out to the desperate and the dregs of the galaxy. Disordered, reckless criminals.

Except he’d never seen The Resistance fire on unarmed civilians.

"...which is why we need  _cohesion_ ,” Captain Phasma continued, “A united front. If we are going to succeed, there is no time to question orders; and you are in no position to do so."

He risked a glance at her face, expecting to see disappointment or anger in the captain’s eyes, but instead there was a strange sort of uneasiness. As if she really could tell what he was thinking. As if she knew what she was saying was a lie.

Because she was wrong. The First Order was all wrong. All of it – his whole life - had always been wrong.

And he realised why he was so afraid. Not because he knew he’d disobeyed. No because he was afraid of punishment. Because he’d made the right decision. Refusing to kill those people _was the right thing to do._ It seemed so obvious when you put it like that.

This time he held her gaze, repeating the words inside his head in case she really could read his mind: _It was the right thing to do._

The uneasiness in Phasma’s eyes turned to hardness once more and she replaced her helmet with a neat click. FN-2187 followed suit, grateful for once to be back inside his anonymous armour where no one could read his face.

The captain swept past him to the door, pausing at his side to snap one last order that managed to sound more mechanical than Ren: "Report to reconditioning."

FN-2187 nodded. “Yes, Captain,” he said. For what he knew would be the last time.


	3. Chapter 3

White light crossed Poe's vision but his eyes refused to focus. It was as if the whole world was underwater. A murmuring at his side slowly coagulated into a voice. The same word, over and over, like an alarm. No. A question: 

"Name?" 

Poe blinked but things became no clearer. A bleeping noise made his brain ache. It wasn’t Bee-Bee-Ate’s 'voice', nor any recognisable tone made by his X-Wing. Some other kind of equipment. The dull memory of pain came creeping back into his muscles; into his bones. Every breath was a groan. Something had gone seriously wrong. The last thing he remembered was General Organa briefing him for the mission. Flying. Heading to Jakku… Then fire and darkness.

The shadow of a face came into view, blurred and looming. It peered at him, muttering something about his heart rate. The beeping stopped. A doctor, he guessed. He must be back in the medi-bay at the base. He couldn't remember crashing but then sometimes it all happens so fast you don't even know until afterwards.

"Name?" 

He tried to move but either he'd managed to paralyse himself or it was simply too much effort. All he accomplished was a twitch of his fingers and a hoarse grunt of exertion. After that, he found he didn't have the strength to care too much about it – moving meant pain, and until they gave him some better painkillers he was happy to close his eyes and lie still and answer the doc’s incessant questions, so long as it either got him some decent drugs of let him pass out again.

"Name?" the voice came again. 

"Poe..."

 _Gods, that was way more difficult than speaking should be._   

"State your full name." 

"Dameron. Commander." 

The voice tutted. He'd got it wrong, maybe. His tongue was fuzzy.

 _Wrong way round, laser-brain. Never mind._  

"Where are you stationed?" 

Poe sighed. _Shouldn't they know that already?_ He supposed they were testing him. If the throbbing in his head was anything to go by, he had a mother of a concussion. Or maybe he'd crashed on the desert planet and they didn’t actually know who the hell he was; that made more sense. Should he tell them he was Resistance? If the X-wing hadn't already given it away... Too many decisions. He just wanted to sleep.  

"D'Qar," he mumbled. 

"What were you doing on Jakku?" 

_Ah, so I did make it._

He let the warmth of exhaustion envelop him - the questions could wait - but before he could sink back into the darkness a jolt of electricity thudded through his body, jarring every bone, firing every nerve. It only lasted a micro-second but he was sure his heart stopped for a moment. He fought for breath, involuntarily trying to sit up, but found himself strapped down, his wrists and ankles bruised and raw beneath unyielding metal clamps. His eyes flickered open. The white blur had been replaced by a black one, dotted with coloured lights. 

"What were you doing on Jakku?" the voice said again. A flat, compassionless voice. A voice he recognised, but not for any good reason. 

As Poe's consciousness came seeping back, so did the fear that should have been there all along. And a sickening guilt that he'd said too much already. He opened his mouth to spit out an insult but another shock of lightning slammed him back down. His head battered against the clamps at his temples. His hands turned into claws.

It fixed his vision, at least. He grimaced through the aftershock, seeking out the figure across the room. The officer stood at the terminal, waiting calmly for Poe's breathing to slow. 

"What were you doing-" 

Poe interrupted him with a coughing fit that might have gone on a little longer than necessary. He forced a smile onto his face. "Sorry," he whispered - his throat full of razor blades - "You were saying something?" 

"Would you like to know what happens if you fail to answer a question for the third time?" the officer asked him, in the same tone you might offer someone a cup of tea.  

Poe shrugged as best he could, keeping his gaze steady and his jaw clenched, ready for the consequences to what he was about to say.  

"Sure, why not?" 

It was a mistake.

Braced for another electric shock, he was wholly unprepared for what hit him. Or rather - what didn't.

Nothing happened.

At least, at first. And the officer watched contentedly as the realisation slowly dawned on Poe's face.  

The chair was turning to ice. 

Except, that was crazy. That wasn't possible. He was losing his mind. But he could no longer feel his hands or feet - he couldn't be imagining that. He looked down at the restraints but they were the same dull metal as before. There was no sign that anything in the room had changed, except that his skin was beginning to turn blue.

Frost crept up Poe's body, forming an intricate pattern of crystalised ice over his clothes. He watched it crawl across his skin in horror; felt the coldness seep into his bones. It was different from the chill of space. Poe had, of course, heard stories about the Rebel base on Hoth but he'd never been to an ice planet. He couldn't imagine it. Yavin 4 was a tangle of jungle, steeped in wet heat, and it had taken him a long time to acclimatise to the cold emptiness of flying outside its atmosphere. But however many thousands of space flight hours he'd logged, nothing could have prepared him for this.

With a detached, sick sort of curiosity, his engineering brain worked it out. The surface of the chair itself wasn't cold at all. Instead, contact points all along the contraption were glowing, pulsing, altering the temperature of the air in between, sending it dropping so rapidly that Poe's body couldn't compute what was happening to it - all it could do was shut down. His heartbeat slowed, his muscles shuddered, and his teeth chattered so hard he thought he might bite off his tongue.  

Poe's panicked eyes flicked back up to the officer and found that mild, implacable smile still in place on his face. The ice closed in on Poe’s heart – tight and sharp and unforgiving, as if his chest was caving in. He couldn’t take in more than a gasp.

“Would you like to answer the question?” the officer asked.

It took all Poe’s strength to shake his head. He closed his eyes to erase the sight of his murderer and found there was a universe behind his eyelids – an endless starscape for him to float through. He could hear General Organa’s voice; see the crinkle of her eye and that sad smile she gave every time she sent him out on a mission: “We’re all counting on you, Poe.” He had failed her - but he could do one last thing. The only thing he had left: all he had to do now was keep his damn mouth shut. Let the information die with him. He reached out into the darkness and felt his mother’s arms curl around him, guiding his fingers to the controls of her old A-wing interceptor – the first ship he ever flew, a skinny little six-year-old sitting in his mother's lap thinking his lungs might burst with the thrill of it. The gentle rumble of the dual engines ran through them both like electricity through a wire, as if they were connected, and he could feel her own heartbeat soar, his back pressed close to her as they broke through the atmosphere.

The coldness of space had scared him that first time. The deadness of it. One tiny mistake and you’re out there, alone. But the warmth of his mother’s embrace surrounded him – flaring indelibly into his memory as if his subconscious knew that within a mere two years she’d be gone forever.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, he thought, floating through the void. Once you let the ice take over; let yourself slip away, you didn’t even feel the cold any more…

“Not yet,” snapped a voice, and fire ripped through Poe’s frozen universe once more.

#

The next time Poe woke he remembered immediately where he was. His consciousness clicked into place with horrifying clarity. He shivered against his shackles as a medical droid administered something that returned his frost-bitten extremities to their normal colour. 

The officer waited at the foot of the chair, a bored expression on his face.

“Let's try again, shall we,  _Commander_?” he sneered. “What were you doing on Jakku?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm._

FN-2187’s vision had narrowed down to a tunnel. He marched automatically down corridor after corridor, barely registering the direction or floor number. The only thing he knew was that he wasn’t going to end up in reconditioning.

He’d heard stories. They all had. Feeding the competition; driving them to push harder during training; a mix of pride and fear at being worthy of the uniform. That's all they'd ever been taught to want - to be one of the many. The officers hadn’t tried to quash the rumours. They acted as a perfectly effective deterrent to ‘errant behaviour’. No one knew exactly what reconditioning consisted of but FN-2187 had seen first-hand what it did to a person. Slip had been sent there, after failing basic training for the second time. He was absent for three days and returned to the barracks dazed and empty and refusing to speak. He lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. He ate mechanically, without talking, even though the mess hall was the only place a sort of informality was permitted. Slip was a different man. No more jokes, no more worrying about not meeting his target percentile – he was the first in line for drills, the first to volunteer for extra training, the first to lead the cheering when First Order broadcasts blared out during the mandatory morale sessions. And then, on that first mission, Slip had thrown himself into the fray. Shot down anything that moved. Those civilians. Unarmed. Fleeing. Terrified.

FN-2187 didn’t want to turn out like that. They couldn’t make him turn out like that.

He didn’t know how long he had until they realised he wasn’t where he should be. Phasma would have transferred the order through to the reconditioning department already. They’d be waiting for him.

A ripple of sweat settled in the small of his back and he shuddered to a stop outside the barracks - his feet must have taken him there without thinking. He tried his access code but an error message blinked up on the screen. Locked out already. He cursed under his breath. His attempt would be logged and now they'd know he wasn’t doing what he was told.

“Hey,” a voice behind him made him jolt to attention

Nines, one of his bunk-mates, shunted a shoulder against him. “How many d’you get?”

FN-2187 stared blankly. "I..."

“I got sixteen,” Nines cut in. “Zeroes got eleven.”

“Sixteen what?”

Nines cocked his head to the side. “Kills,” he said, like FN-2187 was a complete idiot. Like their deployment had been just another training game and they were racking up points. “How many d’you get?”

FN-2187 looked at his feet, “Something wrong with my blaster,” he muttered.

Nines laughed - the sound harsh and sharp through his helmet. “Bad luck. That’ll screw with your perfect score, huh?"

FN-2187 shook his head. Wanted to shake Nines instead. Why could no one else see what they had done? 

Nines didn’t seem to notice FN-2187's agitation. “Wish I’d got that son of a bitch resistance fighter too,” the Stormtrooper said. “Heard they took him in for questioning.”

FN-2187's brain stalled at Nines' words. “Yeah...” he said, “Yeah, they did.” His heart rate spiked again, but this time it wasn't fear. This time it was hope. The one person on this ship that might feel the same way as he did. If he was still alive. 

“Wish I’d get put on _that_ security detail,” Nines grumbled, stabbing his access code into the barracks door display. “I’d like to see what they do to the little bastard.” Nines mimed an elaborate melee move for effect but FN-2187 was already half way down the corridor.

 

# 

 

It was the worst kind of waiting. The kind that sent your primal brain into a crawling, scrabbling ball of dread.  

Worse than waiting for hyperventilation to subside after the sudden onset of space claustrophobia, when you realise all that separates you from the endless void is a tiny X-wing cockpit held together with willpower and bonding strip. Worse than waiting for the impact as your ship goes down – controls limp and useless in your hands. Worse than the hyper-slow vision of a blaster bolt heading towards a target - waiting for the explosion, waiting for the blink in the darkness, waiting for it to cease to be. Just like that.  

This was worse. The anticipation of inevitable, inescapable pain. And the knowledge that there were only two ways out of this: to keep your secret and die in the process, or betray everyone you care about and die afterwards. No one was coming for him - General Organa had told him as much during briefing. No one could know about his mission, so no one would be scrambling to organise a rescue mission if he disappeared. But she'd know, if the First Order got their hands on the map, that he'd failed. And that was the worst of all. 

Poe wasn’t sure if it made it harder or easier that he knew what to expect. The officer wasn't exactly creative with his torture methods, and after a while, with no success, he started to get repetitive. The rig Poe was strapped to was limited in its tricks. There was extreme cold, extreme heat, and the electric shocks he’d become intimately familiar with. His brain throbbed with the memory of the last session. He could feel blood congealing in his hair. And when the officer got bored of watching him convulse, trying not to bite off his own tongue, he tried more conventional techniques, calling in the Stormtrooper on guard duty to assist. Armoured fists were pretty handy for cracking ribs and snapping fingers, or for a good ol’ punch in the face.  And if Poe passed out, they’d wheel in a state-of-the-art healing droid to patch him up, good as new, so they could start all over again.

Sometimes they let the droid use anaesthetic. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they left him there with no droid at all, broken and spitting blood on the pristine floor, cursing in all the languages he knew.

He had no idea how long he’d been in that room. How many shocks. How many times he’d goaded them to kill him. Because even worse than waiting for the next dose of pain was the fear that he might break. Might tell them what they wanted.  

And then there was Ren, prodding against the edges of Poe's mind, pulling out threads of thought like he was removing veins - a pressure so dense he thought his head might explode with the effort of trying to resist.

Ren didn't seem to break a sweat. He took what he wanted and left the pilot turned inside out, his throat raw with screaming.

And suddenly, the waiting wasn't so bad - there was only one thing left to him, and he deserved it.

 

#

 

Reconditioning was on the same level as the detainment cells, which meant FN-2187 sailed through every access code - they were forcing him in the one direction he wanted to go. But they couldn't have predicted what he planned to do. 

He'd have to be quick. But he had no idea which cell the pilot was in. He didn't have clearance to check the files on the detainment access panel, and he couldn't exactly wander around peeking into each cell without raising questions. 

_Stay calm. Look like you're following orders. Stay in step. Head high. Keep moving._

He paused for a second to note with irony that his internal motivation had Captain Phasma's voice, before forcing himself to march at a clip into the detainment sector as if he was on a mission. And he was, he realised - his own mission. It was a strange feeling, following your own path, and a little flood of adrenaline left a slightly crazed grin on his lips. 

Turning a corner, the sight of a black uniform made him falter. At the far end of the corridor, the tall, forbidding figure of Kylo Ren swept out of a cell and turned down the hall, trailed by two officers. 

FN-2187's heart stuttered. This was his chance. 

_Am I really doing this?  Where will we go? How will we get out? What if he's dead already?_

He shut down each thought in turn. No room for questions or doubt. Only action. 

For once in his tightly regimented life, he had no idea what was going to happen next. 


	5. Chapter 5

The blast took out all auxiliary power, battering the ship into a death spin way before they hit atmosphere. The Tie Fighter was fast, but it had in speed and agility it lacked in shields and stability. The Empire was less bothered about the survival of its pilots and more interested in how many enemy ships a single fighter could take out before it exploded.

Poe’s stomach was turning somersaults and his brain battered against the inside of his skull as the ship tornadoed towards the desert planet – an enormous cloud of orange dust that took up the whole of the viewscreen, getting larger and more solid the closer it spun. He craned his neck against the G-force to check on the Stormtrooper – no, not a Stormtrooper any more, he was part of the Resistance now – but the motion made him want to puke. He called Finn’s new name but there was no response. The kid must have passed out almost immediately after the first impact from the cannon. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was better that he wasn’t conscious for the inevitable crash. His stomach turned cold at the thought and he suddenly felt very alone, and very, very small.

Poe wrestled with the controls, his hands searching automatically for familiar switches and sequences from his X-wing that were utterly useless in the enemy craft. The readout counted down proximity to the planet's atmo at an alarming rate and he could barely see beyond the sickening spiraling motion. He forced his body to obey him and turn into it, trying to loop his way out, just like his mother taught him, but it was no use.

The countdown hit zero. Poe braced himself but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of what came next.

The ship broke through Jakuu’s atmosphere with a bone-crushing jolt of pressure that left him gasping, and he wished briefly for one of those black bug-like Tie Fighter helmets and the oxygen supply they must contain. And then the surface was coming up to meet him like an old adversary, finally cashing in its chips for his insistence on disobeying the laws of gravity. Tears blinded him. He could taste copper on his tongue. His muscles screamed at the effort it took just to stay in his seat.

The time to touchdown flickered through numbers too fast to comprehend. Poe managed to yank the gunner ejector seat, praying it was an automatic parachute, and watched Finn’s limp body spiral away into the dusky white sky.

There was no time to find his own ejector.

He clung onto the yoke with icy fingers, his face set, his eyes blank, his mind clear. Down with the ship, that's the way it should go. The way he always knew it would go. A kind of bitter justice, really, after he'd given away all his secrets to Ren. But better to die than face the shame of returning to General Organa and admitting what he'd done.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

 

#

 

Poe woke in flames, the world melting around him like glass. If he was dead at least he wasn't cold, like he’d imagined it might be, floating through a frozen eternity.

It turned out death was... kinda gritty and itchy, actually.

He squinted and sand sluiced off his cheek and into his ear. His face felt burned but he couldn't smell smoke, or fuel. Only hot, dusty air that clogged his lungs when he tried to take a breath.

He could feel the weight of his body, battered and leaden and shot through with a numb kind of pain that seemed to have no beginning or end. Not dead, then. But close. He tried to move but he was bound tight by something, crushing his chest and searing against his left shoulder. Coordinating the opening of his eyes took much longer than it should, and when he managed it he thought for a moment he was blind. Everything had turned white, and the lightness between the slits of his eyelids sliced into his head like a laser - an unfathomable brightness after the dark depths of unconsciousness.

He closed his eyes again, almost breathless with the strain. The past week of torture had taken its toll, and now this- Not that he could quite remember what _this_ was. His brain hurried to catch up, a flood of memories like snapshots. The Tie Fighter. The cannon. The crash. The Stormtrooper. Finn. The last thought got him moving like a slap to the face. He tried to sit up but found himself tangled in parachute cords, wrapping him like a death shroud, one strap pulled tight against his shoulder, cutting into the flesh. He didn't remember pulling his own ejector - there hadn't been time - but it must have been automatic. Or just dumb luck. He'd had plenty of that today.

He untangled himself clumsily with aching limbs and numb fingers. Fresh blood seeped through his shirt and dripped into his eyes. He didn't stop to check for new injuries, so long as he could stand he could walk; so long as he could walk he could find Finn, and then - he didn't know what then. But he owed the guy. His life, and more.

Standing was... problematic. He found himself back on the sand before he'd really straightened up, and he sat there, like an idiot, waiting for the fluid in his ears to stabilise. The urge to throw up came surging up his gullet like acid and he convulsed into the sand, hacking and coughing and spitting. His eyes filled with water and when he looked up again there was a shadow blocking the infernal sun - a momentary shade so blissful his defences didn't immediately react. When they finally kicked in he scrambled back, reaching for a blaster that was long gone. His panicked vision registered a crowd of hooded figures wrapped in sand-coloured fabric, their hands reaching out towards him. He barked out a terrified cry – speech was far beyond his concussed capabilities – and brought his arms up to protect himself but the blows he expected never came. Instead, his eyes focused slowly on a flask of water, a few inches away from his face. Dark eyes peered down at him, faces hidden by scarfs and hoods. He reached forward slowly and took the flask, trying to retain a shred of dignity as he gulped and choked the blessed liquid down.

“Can you walk?” the nearest figure said, in a harsh whisper.

Poe nodded cautiously. To be honest he doubted it, but he could feel the urgency in the figure’s intense gaze. They would be looking for him – the New Order – there had been ships on his tail when he’d crashed. He looked around frantically, searching the endless wavering horizon for signs of his own Tie Fighter, for signs of Finn. He had to find him. He could be out there somewhere, dying of thirst, burning in the unrelenting heat, injured and lost and if the Stormtroopers got him–

But before he could organise his thoughts into words, rough hands were hauling him upright and the world span full circle and his muscles melted into uselessness and his vision closed up like a noose and he dropped like a stone.

 

#

 

Voices, low and anxious, bubbling on the edges of his consciousness.

“–should not have got involved.”

“What else could we do? You saw what they did at the village.”

“And they’ll do the same to us, when they find us.”

“They would have done it anyway, eventually. At least this way… at least we are doing _something_.”

The low sound of a ship engine reverberated through Poe’s tired bones. He winced his eyes open and found himself lying on a narrow bunk in a tiny pod-like room. Bandages criss-crossed his bare chest and an IV snaked out of his left arm. Blurred figures stood just out of his eyeline outside the doorway.

He tried to move but concussion battered him down again. His low grunt of pain drew the figures’ attention and a man and a woman, dressed in the same plain desert garb, hurriedly came to his bedside.

The man checked the data readouts on a basic medical droid in the corner while the woman pressed a hand to Poe’s chest to stop him from attempting to get up again.

“You need a proper doctor,” she muttered. “We’ll be at the base in six hours.”

“Base?” he slurred.

The woman exchanged a careful look with the man behind her, then inclined her head to Poe. “We know who you are. The New Order have taken Jakuu-”

The events of the past few weeks came rushing back to him with a lurch of guilt and dread. He struggled to raise himself on shaky arms, “No- I have to go back. My droid. My friend, Finn. I have to-“

She cut him off with a sharp shake of his head and renewed the pressure on his chest, forcing him back down. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

Poe pulled at the IV in his arm but the woman slapped his hand away. “No, he’s still out there. I have to find him,” he insisted. His ribs ached with more than his injuries. A painful lump was rising in his throat. “He got me out. He… They’ll kill him. Or worse.”

Another anxious glance between the man and woman.

“We searched the crash site,” the man said, with an accent Poe’s tired brain couldn’t place. “There was no one else. Just you.”

Poe let his head drop back onto the pillow with an exhausted sigh. Maybe Finn had got away. And then there was BB-8. That was his mission. He should be more concerned about his droid but Finn’s earnest face remained fixed in his memory. The flash of a smile when Poe had told him he’d fly the Tie Fighter. The childish joy in his voice when Poe had given him a new name. Tears gathered in his eyes and spilled silently down his cheeks. The woman looked away so he could wipe his face on the sheet covering him.

“We got a message through to the general,” the man said, after a polite pause.

Poe’s breath hitched in his chest. There was only one general he could possibly mean. Organa. And now she’d know he’d failed. Not only had he lost the map and BB-8 but he’d managed to get the one person who might be able to help them infiltrate the New Order killed. This was not the homecoming he’d planned. This was not how he wanted to repay Organa’s faith in him. He wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.

His rescuers were watching him, perhaps trying to figure out the flicker of conflicting emotions crossing his face. They had risked everything to save him. They’d left their home planet, heading out into the unknown, leaving death and carnage behind them. He wanted to tell them they were wrong – they should have left him there and saved themselves. He wasn’t worth the sacrifice.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “About Jakuu.”

The woman’s eyes went steely, suddenly, and she knelt closer to him, taking his hand in both of hers. “We believe in the Resistance. You did not come to us by accident.”

Poe forced himself to hold her gaze. He swallowed thickly and nodded once. She seemed satisfied. How easily people believed what they wanted to believe. But he had seen the inside of a Star Destroyer. He had felt the inexorable grip of the Force take hold of his thoughts and toss aside his willpower like it was nothing more than a nuisance. Ren’s mechanised voice laughed at him inside his head. Poe had given him every scrap of information in his head. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to smash something. The woman’s hopeful smile almost broke him.

“You should rest. We’ll wake you when we dock,” the man said softly.

Poe’s guts churned with guilt. He nodded again and rolled onto his side, facing the wall. He heard the man and woman leave and the door slid shut behind them, closing him in – alone, except for the weight of what he’d done.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a start... Planning on more, filling in the gaps from The Force Awakens in between scenes and after the events of the film.
> 
> Based in part on canon from the Before The Awakening companion book and accumulated info from the Shattered Empire comics.


End file.
